The Sweet Spot Page 6

  “Old bruise, huh?” Bella picked up the bowl of chips and salsa and carried them to the table.

  “A bit. Girls in high school were the worst. They thought I was crazy for not wanting to go to college.” She took the tortilla cache to the table and returned for the enchilada platter. “All I wanted since I was little was to have a home of my own to take care of, a husband, and lots of kids. What good is liberation if I don’t get to do what I want?”

  “Hey, I think you should do what makes you tingle, Honey.” Bella carried the small crock of refried beans to the table, then sat across from Char. “Besides, you’re good at it. Your house is one of those places where people feel at home the minute they walk in, you know?” She scanned the mother lode on the table. “And if this is as good as it smells, your name changes to Betty Crocker anyway.”

  Char shot her a mock stern look before bowing her head briefly over her plate, then pulled the red checked cloth napkin from beside her plate and set it in her lap. “I’d rather be Charla Rae Denny, thanks all the same.”

  Bella dug in. When the first forkful hit her mouth, she closed her eyes and moaned. “This is fabulous.”

  Char colored. “It’s not even homemade. I had to use chicken strips and canned enchilada sauce. I haven’t had the time—”

  Bella chewed a tortilla. “Oh, bull. These are from scratch. I’ve never eaten a homemade tortilla, and even I know that.”

  Char snorted. “Well, of course. My mother’s spirit wouldn’t let me through the door with a store-bought tortilla.”

  Bella ate small bites with relish.

  Char lifted a forkful of enchilada and chewed. Mediocre. It’s better with Mom’s sauce.

  “What did you want to be when you grew up, Bella?”

  “Thin.” She spoke quickly, her sharp tone revealing an exposed nerve. She nibbled at a tortilla but couldn’t quite avoid Char’s look.

  Char raised an eyebrow.

  Bella put down her fork and, lifting her arm, skimmed her sleeve up to the shoulder. A fine pencil line of white scar tissue ran along the underside, armpit to elbow.

  “Oh, my gosh. What happened?”

  “I had bariatric surgery two years ago.” Bella pulled her sleeve down. “When you lose two hundred pounds, the skin can’t keep up. Had to have the seams taken in.”

  Char’s jaw dropped. She pictured the perfect heart-shape butt swiveling in front of her in Walmart.

  “I was the fat girl in school. I was born at fifteen pounds and never stopped gaining.” Bella patted her mouth with her napkin, then dropped it beside her plate and leaned back in the chair. “You finish eating. I’ll tell you the story.”

  Char put a tortilla in her open mouth to cover her shock and forced herself to chew.

  Bella continued, “I’m Italian. I’ve got the typical huge family back in New York, and God, can they cook. When Momma and Nonna get in the kitchen, you wouldn’t believe what they create: bucatini, tagliatelle ai carciofi, osso buco—mmmm.” She kissed her fingers. “And the desserts!” She threw up her hands. “Don’t get me started.

  “Anyway, I blimped up. By the time I was in junior high, I was wearing a size eighteen, and the kids in the neighborhood called me porcellino—piglet. It stuck.” She winced, remembering. “I became a full-blown food junkie, and Nonna was my pusher. She came from the old country, see, and didn’t understand. She loved me fat.”

  Char surveyed Bella’s prominent collarbones and delicate wrists. “It’s just so hard to believe…”

  “Well, believe it. I tried every diet known to woman. I ate carrots until my skin turned orange, and I still can’t look at a grapefruit without my stomach hurting. I did diet pills. For a while it worked. I’d lose a few pounds here and there.

  “But the smells from that kitchen.” She closed her eyes and pulled a deep breath through her nose. “I swear I heard the leftovers call me at night, through the refrigerator door, all the way to my room. I’d lay there, determined, for hours. Eventually, though, I’d wear down, and I’d end up sitting at the kitchen table, shoving food in my mouth. I’d even eat it cold. I couldn’t wait long enough for the microwave.” Her eyes snapped open. “Did you ever want anything that bad?”

  Char’s gaze sought the bottle on the windowsill before she could stop herself. “No.”

  Bella didn’t seem to notice. “I didn’t have a single date in high school. I went on to college, resigned to becoming the spinster aunt to my brother and sister’s kids.”

  Char reached for the tin of cookies on the counter, guilt picking at the edges of her conscience. She’d judged this woman. The whole town had.

  Bella gazed through the window, a Mona Lisa smile softening the sharp angles of her face. “Then I met Russ.”

  “And?”

  “Another day.” Bella took a cookie and studied it a moment. “I haven’t blabbed on like this since I left New York.” She took a bite. “Hmmm. What is this decadent thing?”

  “They’re my creation. I call them my Chocolate Hunk PMS Specials, though not in mixed company.”

  Bella snorted a laugh, popped the last bite in her mouth, and dusted her hands. “I thought you were going to show me this hamburger-on-the-hoof thing.”

  Ten minutes later, Char led the way to the corral. Bella followed with mincing steps, trying to keep her spike heels from sinking in the dirt.

  “And this”—Char strolled along the fence to where a small, stocky gray-and-black spotted bull stood, chewing cud—“is Jimmy’s star bucker, Mighty Mouse.”

  “He’s a little punk, isn’t he?”

  “Maybe, but you wouldn’t believe what his semen’s worth.” As Char recalled hitting the button that would increase the price of a straw, a muscle in her stomach jumped. “At least, what I hope it’s worth.”

  Bella faced her, hand on hip. “Just what is the deal with you and cow jism? Here you are, Little Ms. Housewife, wouldn’t say crap if you had a mouthful and somebody asked you what you were eating. Yet you talk like this is acceptable dinner conversation.”

  Char waved away Bella’s comments as if they were gnats circling her head. “It’s business. Think of it like widgets.”

  Bella rolled her eyes, hand on the fence to help her balance on her toes. “Yeah, right. So how did you get in the ‘widget’ business?”

  Char looked at the horizon, remembering. “When it came time to split the assets, neither attorney could decide how to divide the business. If they split it in half, it wouldn’t be viable.

  “I lived in a fog back then. I would have signed away everything, just to be left alone. But the judge wouldn’t allow it. He was afraid Jimmy would take advantage of me.

  “The solution he came up with was pretty clever. He gave Jimmy the bulls, and I get the semen.”

  Bella made a face. “Isn’t that messy?”

  Char let out a surprised bark of laughter. “You are such a city girl.” She shook her head. “We take the bulls to the vet, to have them ‘collected.’ When someone buys it, the office ships it to them, to artificially inseminate a cow.

  “Jimmy earns a fee, taking the bulls to PBR events, and makes even more if they win. What’s more important is them bucking well and gaining a reputation. If they’re a desirable sire, it drives up the price of semen and the value of their calves.”

  Bella held her nose as the bulls paraded by, a safe distance away. “Wow, they are ripe.”

  Char smiled. “My daddy says that’s the smell of money.”

  Bella cocked her head, watching the bulls. “How do they, you know, ‘collect’ it?”

  Char colored. “Trust me, New York, you don’t want to know.”

  Junior stood at a back corral of the feedlot, watching a trailer of cattle being unloaded. JB took off his hat and strode to the fence. The hammered sun on Junior’s features highlighted the years that had passed since JB’d last worked here. Crow’s-feet furrowed the fat around his small eyes, and his jowls swung when his head turned.

  “Well,
if it isn’t the big man.”

  Oh, this is going to be fun. “Junior.” JB leaned his forearms on the fence, fingering the brim of his hat. “Could I talk to you?”

  Junior perused the cattle. “Air’s free, last I checked.”

  JB’s stomach muscles tightened. “You need any help out here?”

  “You looking for a job?”

  “Yeah, part time. I’ve got two households to support now and—”

  “That tends to happen when you hang your wash on someone else’s line.” Junior glanced over his shoulder.

  “Okay, I get it.” JB straightened from the fence. “And I deserve that. But goddamn it, Junior, I lost a lot too.” When he didn’t answer, JB followed Junior’s gaze, to see his ex-father-in-law disappear into the shade of the barn. Shame burned in the blood that rushed to his face. “And I lost him too.”

  “Yeah. You did.” The porcine little man stared him down.

  “Never mind about the job, Junior. I should know by now that you can’t go back.” JB wanted to pound something. Instead, he slammed his hat on his head and walked away.

  Maybe they needed help down at the Stop-n-Go off the interstate.

  “Hey, Big Man.”

  JB spun back. “What?” It came out as a snarl, and he didn’t care. He was done getting whipped. He stood his ground, jaw tight, shoulders tense.

  “I may have something,” Junior’s canny eyes roamed over him. “In fact, it’s right up your alley.”

  An hour later, JB whistled as he drove home, one arm draped over the wheel. The wind from the open window messed his hair, but it felt so sweet and fresh, he didn’t mind. Junior had come through with a better job than he’d hoped for: part-time manager of the feedlot and sale barn. Seems he’d been thinking about partial retirement but hadn’t found anyone he trusted with his operation.

  Junior even agreed to let JB serve as auctioneer on the Saturdays he was in town. Oh, sure, he’d warned that the job wasn’t all glamour, but that didn’t bother JB. He’d been working since he was big enough to tote a water bucket, and sweat never drowned anybody.

  The sun shone warm on the arm he draped on the window ledge. Maybe the dark days of last winter were finally behind him.

  He smiled. His new beginning would break with tomorrow’s sunrise.

  CHAPTER

  7

  The Stage 5 Alzheimer’s Patient: Will require an assistant to complete daily tasks: dressing, cooking, reading. At this stage, personal information may be forgotten, such as address or phone number. A major gap in memory can be detected. The names of children or spouse can still be recalled, but less frequent visitors may not.

  —Your Loved One and Alzheimer’s,

  Gillespie County Board of Health

  Daddy, just relax. How about sitting in the rocker? You always liked—ouch!” Char ignored the sting on her forearm from her father’s flailing hand. He’d been fine through dinner, but since then he’d gotten agitated. Now he stood in the living room, yelling gibberish at his own reflection in the patio door. Wanting the nurse to meet him, Char had held off giving him the pill that would relax him to sleep.

  She stepped in front of him to distract his focus. “How about if I read to you?”

  He roared and shoved her aside. Her shins smacked the edge of the coffee table, and after a teetering moment, she grabbed the corner, caught her balance and her breath. Rubbing her shin, she gaped at him. A memory flashed of the man from her childhood. Daddy, arms akimbo and knees bent, squeezed into her kid-sized chair, an invited guest to her teddy bear tea party. Her heart ached more than her bruised shin. How could this be the same person?

  The doorbell rang. Char limped to the door, keeping a wary eye on Dad as he continued berating the window. She unlocked it and tugged. It didn’t budge. Jimmy. Dancripity! He should have taken care of this. The doorbell rang again.

  I’m not asking the nurse to go to the back door. Char wrapped her fingers around the doorknob, mad enough to rip the devil right off the hinges. Bracing her foot against the jamb, she gave a mighty jerk. Something pulled in her shoulder, but the door let loose all at once, and she just caught herself from tumbling backward.

  A round-faced, mahogany-skinned woman stood in the pool of light on the porch.

  “Missus Denny? I’m Rosa Castillo, from Health Services.”

  “Please come in.” Char smoothed her hair with one hand, opening the screen door with the other. “I’m afraid we’re—” When her father hollered from the other room, Char’s welcoming smile wobbled.

  The nurse stepped in and looked around Char to the living room, then shrugged out of her wool coat. She held it out and let go, not caring if Char caught it or it ended up on the floor, then bustled down the hall.

  A cauldron of emotion churning in her chest, Char opened the coat closet door with a shaking hand. She was mortified, for her father and for herself, for being embarrassed. Char only hoped the nurse wouldn’t get the wrong impression after stepping into this melee. Suddenly aware of the silence, she closed the closet door and stalked to the living room.

  Her daddy sat, eyes closed, in her mother’s rocker. Rosa Castillo knelt beside it, singing. Amazed at the transformation, Char rested her butt on the back of the couch and listened. More a chant than singing, the tonal notes rose and fell, and her dad rocked gently in cadence. There weren’t words, just guttural sounds in the rhythmic repetition. Char felt her own muscles loosening.

  The woman seemed unaware of Char’s presence but, after a few minutes, whispered without turning, “Would you bring his medication? I’m sure he’s tired.”

  Her words broke the spell. Char rose and walked to the kitchen for his pill.

  A half hour later, her dad settled in bed, Char and the nurse sat in the kitchen, sipping from steaming cups of tea. While Char had taken care of her father, Rosa had made herself at home in the kitchen, brewing chamomile tea that Char didn’t know she owned.

  She studied the little woman over the lip of her mom’s china cup. Rosa’s round, lined face reminded Char of dolls in the tourist shops, their heads made from dried apples. In blue surgical scrubs with cartoon cows on them, she looked like a grandma in pajamas. “That was amazing. I had no idea that singing would calm him like that.”

  “There have been studies done on the effect of music therapy with Alzheimer’s patients.”

  “Well, it sure worked. Was that a Native American chant?”

  Rosa’s obsidian button eyes flashed. “Navajo. I was raised by my mother’s people in New Mexico.”

  Char cocked her head. “You’re obviously qualified, and my father must trust you to react like that. Though I’m curious, how did you hear about us?”

  Rosa’s glance flitted around the room. “I ran into Reverend Mike at Saint Luke’s one day, and he told me that you could use some help.”

  “Oh.” The blood rushed to Char’s head and pounded at the back of her knees. “We’re fine at night.” She recalled the pandemonium the woman had walked into and rushed on. “We are. I need help most in the mornings. If I leave him alone for more than ten minutes, I start worrying. Daddy really is fine most of the time. He recognizes his friends, and if you didn’t know him well, you might not even guess—”

  “No need to explain.” Rosa put her hand over Char’s. The skin felt smooth and cool. “I can see how much you love him. I’m sure your father is a wonderful man. It’s my job to be sure he is allowed dignity and is safe.”

  The woman’s touch delivered comfort and something like peace. Char’s heavy burden of responsibility shifted a bit. She cleared her throat, but the words still came out a choked whisper. “I’m so glad you came.”

  An hour later, Char smoothed cold cream onto her face as she walked from the bathroom. What a day. She’d been saying that a lot lately. She stretched, her tired muscles protesting the labor of the past weeks. On the upside, she’d been too busy to mope, and the siren song of Valium was easier to resist out of doors. She still struggled every
day, but had weaned herself down to one pill, before bed.

  She turned off the overhead light on her way by the door and clicked on the lamp on the nightstand. Its yellow aura formed a warm oasis in the shadowed room. Her flannel nightie billowed as she sank onto the bed, the dregs of the day bitter at the back of her throat. She’d be wide awake until the pill took hold. The past crept out of the dark room in her mind to attack with slashing claws.

  Casting about for something to distract the beast, her glance fell on a paperback on the nightstand. Healing Wisdom: Easing a Path through Grief. A parting gift when she’d been asked to leave the grief group.

  She’d put the book down and forgotten all about it. It’s probably some pompous load of cow pie. Now she brushed the dust off, turned it over, and read the back cover. It appeared to be a collection of quotes, meant to soothe mourners. Char opened it and the first line her eyes focused on:

  There are as many nights as days, and the one is just as long as the other in the year’s course. Even a happy life cannot be without a measure of darkness, and the word “happy” would lose its meaning if it were not balanced by sadness.

  —Carl Jung

  It sounded like her well-meaning friends’ advice—time healed all wounds. What a load of crippy-crap! As if hearts and flowers sprinkled on blunt-force loss would help. Before she could stop herself, she read the next entry:

  Parting is all we know of heaven and all we need of hell.

  —Emily Dickinson

  Char snapped the book closed. Now, there was some wisdom she could get behind. She dropped the book on the nightstand, turned off the light, and slid into bed. The shiver that snaked up her body was only partially due to cold sheets. Maybe the pill would take hold faster tonight.

  The cold white light of a flashlight moon spilled in the window as she lay huddled on her side of the bed, staring at nothing. Would she ever get used to sleeping alone? She scooted to the middle of the bed and spread-eagled her arms and legs. It felt wrong, so she rolled back to her side of the bed. She ached for her charmed life, when her son dreamt little-boy dreams down the hall.